


The Forgotten, The Remembered.

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Sherlock, Angst, First Person, M/M, Rebuilding the relationship, Sherlock's POV, indirect mentions of Moriarty, maybe too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up in hospital, a man's hand holding his. Who is this stranger that keeps repeating "It's me, John."?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Awakening.

I opened my eyes and met your blue ones, and the moisture in them, along with the small wrinkles on their end, showed relief and recognition. And you said a name—my name—once, then twice, and I frowned, not knowing where I was, why my head ached, who you were, why the feeling of your hand on mine felt so deliciously invasive, and you frowned too, probably wondering what was wrong, but you couldn’t see, no. You couldn’t see everything was wrong because I was lying on a hospital bed, and here you were, smiling, expecting me to recognise you. And I didn’t. I tried, but didn’t. Were you with me when I—when I what? Fainted? Hit my head? What had happened, and why were your nails digging into my skin, your lips muttering time and again “It’s me, John,” and “Sherlock,” as if introducing yourself, or calling my name, would help? But it did not. And you looked at me, John, and even if I didn’t know you, I could read the slow, horrible sadness that dawned on you, I could see your breath hitch as you pulled away, finally giving me a chance to look at you properly, even if you stood up so abruptly that your body was a blur, and the chair you had been sitting on fell on its back.

Your clothes were old and wrinkled; there were dark circles under your eyes; your hair was dirty and disheveled; you looked exhausted. You had been sleeping by my side, then. At least for two nights. I wondered why or whether you’d held my hand all that time, and maybe that was the reason why my skin cried for more contact, more warmth. But I didn't move. I watched you, took you in slowly and thoroughly. I saw your chest heave up and down in harsh breaths, your panting, your wide eyes, the dread painting your features, the clenching and unclenching of your hands, the way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, your mouth forming words too stubborn to leave your lips.

Oh God. You were distressed and confused, John, but when you reached for my hand I couldn't help but move mine away and wince, and the pain in your eyes... Oh the pain in your eyes was shockingly palpable. I hadn't said a word; I had just moved my body, and the pain it caused you was so great, so shocking, that my confusion grew, my interest in your person now piqued. My brain was exhausting possibilities and scenarios in which you could've taken part, but I knew none of them were memories. The fierceness in your eyes and the way you held yourself screamed soldier. But I hadn't gone to war, had I? No. No, I hadn't. I had had my own war, my own enemies but in the jungle that was the city. I had never held a weapon, other than...

A pool. The cold air was wiped away from my face as it was replaced by the warmth of the heated pool. There was a gun in my hand, and I was pointing it at... Dark wide eyes, black hair, a spotless suit, and the sweet and terrifying voice of a madman.

And there was also another time, when I pointed it at... Oh. American. Tied in a chair, eyes defiant until he heard something I uttered, and then all there was were his grunts as my fists met his ribs and head, as my feet hit his legs, and his scream as he fell out of the window.

Those images were exact and detailed in my head, but not a single glimpse of you came to me. I looked up at you, willing the memories to make sense, but you bent closer, and my throat ached; it was dry, and I moved my mouth, formed the words but didn't utter them because I couldn't at first, until I was able to swallow and my voice finally came out, crooked and wheezing.

"Wh—who are you?"

You moved away as though I had hit you in the stomach, and oh, John, the pain my words arose in you. I didn't know you, but your feelings as I said that were shown in the shiver in your hands, the widening of your eyes, the down-curving of your lips, the paleness in your features, and it all made me ache, too. The feeling was so alien, so far away, and yet so close.

You murmured your name again, and I'm not sure whether you wanted to make me remember you or you wanted me to say it. Maybe you thought if I said your name the memories would come to me. So I did. Your name rolled off my tongue with practised ease, but it meant nothing to me. No rush of images, no sensory memories either. Nothing. I stared blankly at you, blinked, stirred in my bed, my weak limbs protesting at the movement.

The back of your leg met the chair, and you winced, probably dragged back to reality by its hard touch. I couldn't help but stare at you, and no matter how hard I tried, how much I wanted to, no memory of you before my awakening came to me. And I repeated your name, if anything to embroider it in the veil that covered my memories of you.

John. John. Your name was and wasn’t there at the same time: the memories, the contact, the moments. They were locked inside my brain, and I couldn’t find the key, but I wanted to unlock you, John, because I felt that I couldn’t sleep until the last bit of the puzzle was solved, until I knew who you were, until I could recognise you.

And I knew how you felt. God, John, I did. I still do. Because of your reactions I could only say you cared about me, about what I thought (or not) of you, and I know what it is like to be a stranger to one of your loved ones. You cared, but I couldn't remember. How could I care for a stranger, even if I knew you weren't supposed to be one? And I knew just how you felt, I did, but I couldn't help my reaction.

And I knew what I must have looked like. Mother’s eyes would suddenly become darker, her grin would fade away, and she would edge away from me, not knowing who I was, no matter that she had given birth to me. And then Mycroft would pull me away, and we would walk home, pretending Mother was fine, remembering only the moments where she was smiling, even if her expression haunted us.

And now, John, I knew you were feeling that too; I knew it was like a stab, just like I felt it the first time Mother forgot who I was. But it wasn't intentional. It wasn't her fault. It took me long enough to come to terms with the fact that she was sick, that it wasn't that she was erasing me from her mind palace like I would do with useless data.

Had I deleted you? Had you meant so little to me, even if I apparently meant so much to you?

My queries were interrupted by the confident stride of Mycroft as he walked into the room. His features twisted for a fraction of a second when he saw us, and I know both you and I sent pleading looks in his direction. I feared you, you see. I didn't know you, and I had woken up with your hand in mine, your soft smile centimetres away, your hot breath on my skin, and I was dizzy.

Mycroft looked from me to you and from you to me. He took a tentative step in my direction, his palms forward, his frown deep, his every movement uncertain. I repressed the nagging need to roll my eyes at him, to be annoyed.

"Sherlock?" he called me, a question in his lips.

"Mycroft, who—who is John?" I asked him, "What happened?"

"You don't remember John?" Mycroft asked, incredulous, and shot a pitying—pitying!—glance at you. "Do you remember the last two years, Sherlock?"

I frowned. Did I? In a single second, I racked my brain for answers. I knew I had been a part of the most undercover war there ever was. I knew I had been the good guy in a sea of snipers and frauds. I knew I had carried a mission thoroughly and successfully. I knew _(your eyes)_ there was something I had left behind, but it was for the best. I knew I was protecting _(your name rolled off my tongue with practised ease)_ someone, and a blurry face popped up in my mind, as though surrounded by smoke. I tried to wave away the fog but couldn't.

I couldn’t see you in any of my memories.

I looked at Mycroft again and shook my head. You shook your own head along with me, whispering negatives under your breath. Your fists clenched, and suddenly you were moving, rushing out of the room. Your jacket still hung by the door.


	2. The Joining Thread.

Mycroft explained. Suddenly the mystery was not other people but myself. My own mind. My own brain. Suddenly I was my own mystery. It unsettled me. I knew my mind palace, my thought processes, better than I knew anything else. And here I was, trying to solve the puzzle that was my life.

Why had I erased you from my memories? Why was your face before my accident not clear-cut like everyone else I knew?

Mycroft brought me up-to-date with what had happened before my awakening at the hospital, too. Since the last day I remembered was January 29th, 2010, Mycroft had to carry the task of filling me in on the events that had led to me lying in bed in a hospital. It was tedious. Especially when not even he knew what my last year had consisted of. He mentioned the war that I remembered, explained the men I remembered pointing guns at, and several other loose memories. The thread that joined them all was you, John. You were the only constant thing in the first year and a half I had forgotten. You were my flatmate, for all that time, my friend, apparently, and I could not remember you. It made no sense.

Mycroft told me that a year and a half ago I had come to him and talked to him, told him I would be back as soon as Moriarty’s (that was the madman’s name, though I am certain you know it; I’m sure it’s haunted you as much as it’s haunted me) network was dismantled, and then disappeared.

“After that day, my dear brother, you never contacted me again,” he said, a smirk on his lips. “Not directly, at least, since you did make small appearances every now and again in the CCTV cameras, or certain witnesses would come to me claiming to have seen you.”

I could tell the pride in his voice was genuine when he stated after a moment of silence: “You did a magnificent job, Sherlock.”

He got up, umbrella in hand as if it were a walking stick. A small rush of tangled images left me gasping. They were too fast for me to make sense of them.

I shook my head at his questions, knowing the memories were long since gone now. I refused to call a doctor. I wanted to be left alone.

He turned his back at me, calling over his shoulder, “I know why you felt you had to bring Moriarty’s net to an end on your own, brother, but this might be... more difficult to face on your own.”

When I raised my eyes, he was leaving through the door.

 

 

 

You shifted your weight to your left foot, looking everywhere but my face. Your clothes were fresh, but the same bags darkened your eyes, and you seemed to have a few-days-old beard. Your hair was as tousled as I remembered from two days prior, when I had first awoken.

“I forgot my jacket,” you mumbled.

I nodded, uncertain as to what to say, and closed my laptop. Your fists clenched and unclenched, again and again. You were distressed.

I made a gesture for you to sit on the chair you had sat two days before, by my bed. “Please, sit,” I said. My voice was beginning to sound like me once again, thanks to the rehydration salts I was being fed through an IV. Your throat moved as you swallowed. After a few moments of silent debate, you finally, slowly, walked to the chair and sat on its edge, as though you wanted to fly as soon as I gave you half a chance.

I did not intend on giving you one.

You looked away, and I let myself take you in, burn you in my memory for the second time, try to find small details that could spring something in my mind, but none came. Maybe it was too soon, as the doctors insisted on telling me. Maybe I would never remember. They had no idea how permanent the damage was.

And then your eyes met mine for a moment, and something in your face seemed to light up. Your frown practically vanished, the hard lines of your face softened, your lips curved slightly up. I tilted my head slightly to a side, trying to think what to make of it. Had you seen recognition in my eyes, John? If you had, you were mistaken.

“Oh, Sherlock,” you murmured, and I saw your eyes sparkle. “You’re still... you.”

You chuckled, and I could see you sit forward only a bit, obviously hesitant as to whether you should hold my hands or not.

“Me?” I repeated, needing more explanations to the sudden change in your emotions other than the obvious fact of me being myself.

“Your eyes. You’re analysing every single movement, every... detail in me, aren’t you? You’re trying to figure me out.”

I remained silent, which seemed to be enough of a confirmation for you. You smiled gently and looked down, embarrassed.

"I know you don't..." you began, but stopped and started over. "I know you don't remember me, Sherlock. I do. And I know you probably don't trust me, either." I thought it more likely you were projecting your trust issues onto me, but I didn't utter a word. "But I just... I missed you."

You were trying your hardest to hide the blush of your cheeks, as though the red colour saturating them would emasculate you. I could see why I tolerated you. Why you tolerated me, however, posed a mystery. You grinned, and I couldn't help but reply with a smirk of my own.

“I get discharged on Monday,” I said after a moment of comfortable silence. Your eyes turned back to my face, your face one of expectant surprise, wondering where I was going with such a comment. I rolled my eyes. “I hope you’ll pick me up?”

“I—sure.” You cleared your throat. “And where should I... take you?”

One side of my mouth curled up in a half-smirk. “Home.”

 


	3. The Homecoming.

The beginning of the week found me crossing the threshold to 221B Baker Street with you in tow. I had a feeling of odd familiarity as my eyes travelled around the apartment, noticing the ways the room was similar or had changed from the one in my vague memories. The bookcase was covered in dust, except for in front of a few books (the ones you probably used the most, such as “A Tale Of Two Cities”), and there was one concerning amnesia on one of the armchairs. The skull that had once been on the fireplace was now on the desk. How could this place seem familiar and alien at the same time?  


For what I could gather, you were a sentimental man—oh, sentiment, how overrated it is—and I was therefore not surprised to see the small number of changes in the house. The kitchen table was unoccupied, the microscope and experiments nowhere to be seen. That part of me, the one you had no use for, was gone. But bits of memories returned as I saw the items I had left behind: the skull, a scratch on the desk, a spot of blood, my books, the skull painting. It seemed logical to assume that you had kept my more emotional, human side, instead of my rational one, though whether that was due to conscious or unconscious decision, I was not certain.  


You were staring at me as I observed the flat we used to share, as I willed some memories of domestic importance to come, but none came. The only memories I had were of fights, <em>solo</em> fights.  


My eyes then met yours. I smiled softly, and you knew, that sadness appearing again, I still did not remember you. I wondered how you knew, when my features had been schooled to remain calm and neutral, and yet you burst through my façade and read me, as I was breaking off your own mask and reading you.  


“Tea?” you offered, hanging your coat by the door and walking to the kitchen.  


I stood in the middle of the living room—our living room—and spun around, cataloguing everything I saw around me. A shiver ran down my spine. This place, our flat, was almost exactly the same as the place I called my mind palace. Everything, from wallpaper to carpets, was exactly the same.  


Suddenly my head felt extremely light. It made sense now. I had chosen a place I frequented to make it easier for me to store the new information regarding cases and other important developments. And then I <em>saw</em> as I spun around. I saw the rooms, one by one, as I floated through them, faces and names rushing by me, owned by the people I had chased, suspected, investigated. Corpses, blood, suicides, murders, serial killers, family, details... Everything flew by me as I visited the 221B Baker Street that was in my mind. And there, in one corner, I could see blue eyes, and I didn’t know whether it was my mind or reality, and they grew bigger, a faint distant noise reaching my ears, but it was white noise: voices, thousands of voices, talking at once, faces, poses, poisons, lips, noses, clothing, stains, books, signs, words, acronyms. Everything rushed around in chaos in my head, banging the inner walls of my mind, threatening to break my skull, and I felt myself floating, becoming as light as air, and the last thing I saw were those eyes, big and worried, before everything faded to black and silence swallowed me whole.


	4. The Caretaker.

My eyes opened and met yours again. The blue seas that were your irises drowned me, alluringly whispering to my mind, calling it to be inside of them until I was lost in their colour, their depth, their beauty. I felt my jaw moving, my body struggling to shift even one muscle of my limbs, but I could not. Not when you were looking straight into my soul.

But then you talked, and oh, John, the connection was broken by my own name coming through your lips, called in your raspy, shaking voice, and I blinked. Everything fell to pieces around me, and I was back at 221B Baker Street, the real 221B Baker Street, and I could feel the faint heat of your arms around me, your legs beneath my back, your tight hands on my arms.

“Sherlock,” you repeated, and I wanted to groan, to complain. I wanted to go back to drowning in your eyes. “Are you alright?”

I sucked in a filling breath and attempted a nod. My body was still not responding properly. “Y-yes. Yes, I am,” I managed to whisper. You let out a breath that seemed to wash away a bit of your worry with it.

“What happened?”

I shook my head as best as I could, with it feeling as light as it did. “Images. Names, faces. They all came back at once.”

You frowned. I said nothing as you mumbled, “I knew it was too soon.” You closed your eyes for a moment and then opened them again, insecurity filling those blue irises of yours. “And did you...”

I grimaced. “No. I’m afraid not.”

You nodded, and the eye contact broke when you looked away.

The electrical kettle clicked at that moment. You looked in the kitchen’s direction as it shut off.

You ducked your head to look into my eyes again. “Want some tea?”

I nodded and felt the back of my head rub against your thigh. Slowly, I began to sit up. My hand grasped my forehead as dizziness overtook me. You grabbed me by the shoulders, holding me in place.

“Alright? Sherlock?”

“I—”

“Come here, mate.” You pulled me down again but this time resting my head on the floor. I resented that, but I couldn’t form the words to complain. Your backlit head made your face dark, even if your eyes were scanning me in what looked like concern.

After a long moment of silence, during which I regained some of my brain functions, you pulled further away. “I’ll bring you a cup of tea, okay? You just stay here and breathe. Back in a tic.”

I watched you walk away, and then the kitchen wall hid you. You went around the room, opening and closing doors, gathering china, teabags, spoons, and other things. With a sigh, I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to them, rubbing gently my closed eyelids. The light-headedness started to fade away as I lay there. Minutes later, I heard your steps come closer. You were rushing as much as you could, even if your hands were holding two full tea mugs.

“Here,” you said. There was a noise by me; the cup against the floor. “D’you think you can sit up now?”

I pulled my hands away and slowly opened my eyes. Your face hovered over me, and for a moment I went speechless as my eyes adjusted to the halo that the ceiling light produced around you.

“I—Yes. I’m fine.”

Slowly and tentatively, I sat up. You helped me with your free hand—even though it was not truly necessary—until I was in a sitting position. I sighed.

“This is incredibly dull.”

You chuckled, the noise making me smile, if only a little. “Yeah, well. It’ll go away eventually.”

I took my mug and blinked at its content. “This has milk.”

Your eyes snapped up, and your smile faded away.

“Yes, yes it does. I’m sorry, did you want...”

Were you scared I had changed since my amnesia? That essential parts of my personality, my preferences and drives, were also altered, along with my memory? I smiled at you again and took a sip of the proffered hot drink. I kept our eyes locked over the rim of the mug as the liquid filled my mouth. It also had sugar. Just the job.

“It’s perfect.”

We smiled at each other again. “Good,” you said, and took a sip of your own tea. Your fist clenched and unclenched on your lap.


	5. Feel Me.

That first night, I went into my room and lay on my bed, looking at my surroundings as I imagined what it would be like to wake up on this bed every day. I closed my eyes and opened them again, noticing the first thing I would see every morning: a lamp to either side of me, on top of the nightstand tables. There was a window with dark curtains on the other side of the room, a bookshelf... I catalogued everything in my mind, paying close attention to the book titles and which ones seemed to be worn with frequent handling, once again. I got up and walked around, taking everything in. My brain was a sponge, dry and in dire need of information.

The days went by unnoticed. I watched you move around the house, watched the fridge empty, and you growl in frustration at our lack of eternal groceries. Eventually, and much to your dismay, you had to leave the house to go shopping. You assured me twenty three times that you were not going to be gone for long, and I said yes to the first three, nodded to the following twelve, ignored the next seven, and shouted at you the last time as I pushed you out the door.

I seized the moments you were gone to explore the house in more detail. I had been doing it over the week, in as small and undercover motions as I could muster. I knew it would upset you if I just wandered around the place and knew nothing, and for whatever reason, I did not want to. Therefore, I classified the details that surrounded me: the placing of things, the people, the routines... Everything was being restored in my mind palace, little by little, even if I lacked the specific memories. As I walked down the corridors and through the doors, I classified the objects that filled what we called our home.

I failed to remember, but as I roamed I recognised your input as well as mine all over the flat, and I wished I remembered. I wished I remembered you. I wished I knew what you were like, what you liked, why I was so cautious about upsetting you.

I walked into your bedroom. Your bed was unmade. I wanted to explore your personal space, make sense of you. Your scent surrounded me as I lay on top of the wrinkled sheets. I could smell you, feel your imprint, your presence. I could picture you there, just as I was, staring at the ceiling. And then I remembered. I remembered being there, in pretty much the same position. I remembered my ragged breathing, a moan, and your touch... Your touch on me, on my length, and the way your hand had moved around my cock... And, oh, then I had come all over your hand, and I had whispered your name... I had lain on the bed (<em>our</em> bed?) for a long time that morning, I remember that much. But I could not remember you being there with me. I just recalled bits of you: your hand, your scent, your skin.

My breathing was fast as I combed through these sense memories and tried to pinpoint you between them. You were there with me, on your bed, on my bed, on the couch, in the shower, your hand around my prick every time and my seed over it afterwards.

I heard the door unlock and you calling my name from downstairs, but it was white noise as I remembered the overwhelming sensation of your fist when it moved over my prick, the feeling of my teeth digging into the flesh oh my tongue to stop myself from screaming, yelling your name, until my voice went hoarse, my breathing ragged...

You were now in the room with me, and when had you climbed the stairs? Your eyes showed relief first, and then confusion, and I sat up, noticing I was painfully hard, and oh, the movement of fabric over my hardness elicited a gasp from me. You moved your mouth like a fish out of water.

John, John, why hadn't you said anything? Why hadn't you so much as kissed me? Why didn't you invite me to your bed again?

I got up and walked to you, my steps slow yet deliberate, our eyes locked, my body thrumming with arousal. I put my hand on your jaw and pushed you against the wall. My body now pressed against you, I could see your brain working full-speed, your indecision. I could see the dilation of your pupils, feel your pulse racing, and I knew you wanted it, John. I knew you wanted me to close the gap between us, to press my lips to yours, to taste my saliva, to feel my questing tongue.

I leaned my head down. "Why didn't you tell me?" My voice was a whisper over your lips. "Why didn't you say something?"

“I—” Your voice faltered as your brain took in our proximity, and I started to lean forward. I put my other hand on the wall, next to your head, and you blinked. As I was lowering my head, I felt your hand on my chest, reluctant at first but strong afterwards, and I watched your jaw move for a moment before a single broken word escaped your lips. “Don’t.”

I stared at you, wondering what I had gotten wrong. The blush on your face was noticeable even though I was blocking you from the artificial lights. You looked positively embarrassed and flustered.

Your hand pushed on my chest, but I didn’t move. You licked your lips and looked down at my mouth. You let out a breath that washed over my face and smelled of you. You and I both wanted more. We wanted to kiss, we wanted it. Didn’t we? Didn’t you? I could tell you did want more than this, more than my body flush against yours. I could hear it in your ragged breathing, feel it in your racing pulse, in your hardening prick.

Yet there it was again, when you parted your lips: a refusal, a prohibition.

"Don't," you whispered. "Don't, please."

“Why?” My voice came out deeper than I intended it to. "We—" I began, but you interrupted me.

“Because, there’s no... There was nothing to say, Sherlock. I... We... We didn’t...” You seemed to be afraid of finishing the sentence, afraid of my reaction. Not because I would be violent, but because... what? I would be in pain?

I lowered my head further. Why didn’t we? It was... It seemed like I had wanted to, and you had helped me calm my arousal, hadn’t you? Your hand... Your hand on my prick...

I noticed you were not breathing.

"We never—there was no <em>we</em>. We never did anything, we never even kissed. Look at me." I did. I was looking at you, like I had been looking at you ever since you walked into the room: under a new light, with desire, with confusion, with need. It astonished me how much I wanted your lips on mine, how badly I needed to touch you, to kiss you. I wanted to drown in the depth of your eyes, to lose myself in you. "Sherlock, there was no <em>we</em>, there was no <em>us</em>."

“Yes there was. I remember, John. I remember your hand around me, moving and jerking me off until I screamed, I remember your touch on me, I remember your smell as we lay on this bed.”

You closed your eyes as my voice became a whisper. You shook your head minutely, a movement I wouldn’t have noticed had I not been this close to your face. You inhaled, slowly and deeply. I could smell you, smell your scent, and I knew I would be able to identify it among thousands of other smells, I knew I could know you apart from everyone else in the world, and I felt like a hound, like a...

Hound.

Like a frightening, hungry hound.

Flashes of images and the feeling of fear filled my mind: screams, arguments, shivers, cold air, toxic gases, death, blood... I gasped for air, felt my knees weaken under my weight and bend, and suddenly a tight grip on my arms, your distant voice, both now and then. You were repeating my name over and over again, whispering it first, then at a normal volume, I was sure. But you were far away, in a different room, like that time. Inside a cage, a hound. You inside the cage, the hound threatening you. But no. It was only a sound effect. But your fear, John, that day, your pleas for help.

You called me for help.

And now I needed yours.

Everything disappeared around me but your hands on my arms. I stopped seeing. Everything vanished but a hollow, Dartmoor, a mask of bloody eyes, a mine. An explosion. The hound exploded... The... No, that was not what happened, it had been a man. A murderer. And he had stepped on a mine. Yes.

I saw again the explosion, the man turning into pink rain before our eyes, the fear in me, the shaking of my hands. The fear. The fear was swallowing me, as was the dark, grim environment. You were terrified, I knew it. We all were. But looking at you I could see your eyes, your fisting hands, your broken and trembling voice as you talked, and you were scared, John. You were scared of the hound. And I had been, too.

My head spun around with the memories, ached, and your voice came back to me, more clear, closer. I was shivering. I was blinking but unable to see. I tightened my grip on your arms (when had I put them there?) and you repeated my name, asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer.

“I—” I tried.

And then I was back with you. My eyes saw yours, I looked at your face. I could finally see you. And I let out a long breath, finally able to get oxygen into my lungs. I smelled your scent again, and it tied me back to reality. It roped me to the real world.

I looked down into your eyes and I couldn’t care less about what had happened in the past. We both wanted—needed—this now, and so I did it. I gave in.

My lips crushed against yours. You were frozen in place at first, until you gave in to our desire too, and kissed me back. You sighed, the air coming through your nose tickling my skin, and I moved my mouth, parted it, allowing my tongue to flicker out and onto your lower lip, trace it, taste it.

You were delicious. You tasted of a flavour I could only identify as you. You tasted of John, and my tongue slipped between your parted lips in a quest for more John, and you made a noise. Oh, you made a noise that made my panicking brain calm down and focus on your body against mine, on every millimeter of my skin that made contact with yours, and I burned, John. I burned in you, in your flame, in your desire. I burned and loved the heat melting my skin, merging it with yours, and we were one. Oh, we were one as your body relaxed against mine, as you opened your mouth for my tongue, as your grip on my arms pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.

The wet noise of our kissing elicited a warm feeling in my chest I never expected to feel, as well as a renewed sense of hunger. I needed you. I needed more, even if my knees were threatening to buckle again, even if my limbs ached. I needed you even closer.

I pulled you toward me, and you tilted your head slightly to a side, granting me more access to you. Your tongue pushed mine, and it was like a fight for a moment, one you won when your tongue entered my mouth, one that resulted in me feeling myself dissolve in front of you.

I inhaled your scent again, and the noise brought you back to reality, I could tell. I wanted to prevent it. I was losing you. I tried my best to bring you back into the kiss. I sucked on your tongue, and deepened the kiss. I could tell your eyes were open; I felt the burn of your gaze on my closed eyes, and so I opened them too, met yours, and you melted. You exhaled a long breath and moved your hand to my neck, pulling me closer.

Your touch tightened and I shivered under it. I pressed you further against the wall, and you let out a long breath that made my cock twitch. I couldn’t help my hips from thrusting against yours, and we both stilled and groaned, the friction feeling good, so good, and yet not enough.

You pushed me, and John, I panicked for a moment, until I opened my eyes and met your hungry ones, so different from the ones I had seen at the hospital that first day. You kept on kissing my lips and pushing me further back, until I was taking small steps. Your hands tore my robe off my shoulders, and I helped you get rid of it. We kept moving, and my roaming hands started to undo your shirt buttons.

You moaned into my mouth, and the noise was so exquisite that it boiled up my blood, had me throwing my head back, and you kissed and bit my neck, and your tongue wet my skin, drew on it, danced on it. I put my hands on the back of your head, encouraging your ministrations wordlessly. And oh, oh, you bit my pulse, my earlobe, my lower lip, and then you kissed me, and oh, I needed more. John, I needed more.

The back of my legs hit something and I stumbled. I felt myself falling backward, so I grabbed you by your half-open shirt for support and squealed (oh, what an idiotic noise), and we both collapsed onto the soft surface of your mattress in a heap. You laughed and kissed me. I couldn’t help my own chuckles as I kissed you back. You pulled away. You were breathing through your mouth, your forehead covered in sweat. You were smiling at me, your red lips curled up. You caressed my cheek, and I felt the trace of fire the touch left behind, the same fire I felt wherever our bodies met.

You looked breathtakingly gorgeous above me. I couldn’t keep my mouth closed, not when you looked so happy and beautiful.

“I never thought we’d... you’d want to kiss me. I—” You shook your head as if you couldn’t make sense of it.

I put my hand on the back of your neck and brought you back down for another kiss, a mere brush of the lips. When you pulled away again, a flush had spread across your cheeks and even as I watched, it deepened to a dusky pink.

“I don’t know what happened before, John. My memory screams we’ve already done this, but... Apparently not. It’s... Oh.” I blinked at you, and it all made sense. The dominoes fell one after the other. “Oh,” I repeated, knowing exactly what had happened. Of course I couldn’t place you in that memory, but it was not for what I had thought it had been. It was not that I had erased you from it. I didn’t remember you in the memory of myself on your bed, because you hadn’t been there. Oh. “Of course.”

You frowned in confusion at me. “What is it?”

“You didn’t have contact with my prick that day.”

“I thought we’d established that.”

I ignored your comment. “I remember your hand, but not you there. Because you weren’t there, and that wasn’t your hand,” I said, smiling at you.

“So, what? You had someone else jerk you off on my bed?” You started to pull away, but I held you close.

"Of course not." You stared, and I started to smirk. "Oh, don't be absurd. I—It was me. Isn't it obvious?"

"Is it, now?" I felt your body relax, if only a little, at my words. "Care to explain?"

I blinked at you, astonished at your blatant failure to make logical connections. "The bed. It smelled like you. I seized that to get more aroused, imagined you were the one stroking me, and helped myself out of the obnoxious erection I was suffering from."

After staring at me for a long time, you leaned down and kissed me again. Your questing tongue licked mine, my lips, my mouth. Our teeth clattered. I moved underneath you and moaned into your mouth when your erection touched mine again.

“Only you can describe an erection as obnoxious,” you said with a harsh laughter as you moved against me, and I moaned, I writhed, I needed more, I needed—Oh God, yes. Yes, your touch right there, on my length, in spite of the barrier my clothes made, in spite of—oh—in spite of it, you stroked me, up and down, with slow, mind-bending movements, and I gasped. I needed. I needed. “Shit,” you growled, and I took in a deep breath.

You kissed me again, John, and kissing you was beautiful, delicious, but it furthered my hunger, my need, and yours, too. So you tried to take off your shoes with a push from your toes against your heels, and the movement had our erections make contact again. I tried to stay still as you tried to take off your leather shoes, but you groaned and had to reach down to undo the shoelaces.

I laughed breathlessly, and you shot me an amused look. “Oh, shut it.” I heard one shoe fall on the floor and then the other, and then your mouth was on mine, your touch venturing around my body as if inspecting me for guns or a bomb. But the only bomb I could have, John, was my ticking pulse against my ribcage and in my ears, and you could feel it too. I was dangerous, explosive, and I needed to, I needed to explode. I needed to become air in your touch, I needed to release all what was gathering inside of me, in my groin, and oh, God. I made a noise that would have sounded indignantly weak to my own ears had I been paying attention to myself and not been lost in you, lost against your body, lost in those blue eyes, lost in your gripping eyes, in the digging of your nails in my skin, in the ghost that was your breath over my wet skin, over my swollen lips, lost in your dancing fingertips over me. Lost in you, in your scent, your taste, your touch. You.

Oh, your—your hips bucked against mine, and I almost lost the small amount of sanity that kept me in this world, in this reality. In our reality. I almost exploded. I couldn’t—couldn’t hold back any longer.

I spread my legs and wrapped them around you, pushing you down for—oh, god—for more contact, for more delicious friction. There was a wet spot beginning to form on my pajama bottoms. My hand sneaked between us, and I undid your trousers’ button and zipper. You stilled against me, your eyes closed as I sneaked under your pants’ band and took you in my hand. The noise you made as I began moving—oh. Oh, the delicious noise, the change of texture, the smell of your skin...

You bucked into my hand, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t let that be the way you would reach completion.

I released your cock and peeled your trousers and pants off of you. You helped me and kicked the garments away as my hands lowered my own pajama bottoms, and then you looked down at me and saw what I was doing and up at me with those blue, dark, lust-filled eyes, and oh. Oh, John, if you kept looking at me that way, I might never fulfill my plan. I kicked my clothing away and put my legs around you again and finally, finally, our pricks touched, and oh, oh, the delicious feeling of the rubbing of our cocks against one another, the word that died in your chest and became a whisper of air, my silence as I stopped breathing, it was so beautiful, something I could never have with anyone other than you, John; something you made, something that drove me wild, something that made me hungry. I pushed your hips closer, and moaned when you pressed with strength against me.

I couldn’t—couldn’t... I needed you, inside me. This wasn’t enough. Not remotely. I needed—“I need you,” I gasped out and swallowed. “I need more. John, more. Please. I— I—”

You cupped my cheeks and kissed me again. When you pulled away, you made a shushing noise. “It’s okay, I... I’ve got you. Are—God!—are you sure you want me to—”

I made a face, or tried to, and nodded. “Please.”

“Fuck.” You swallowed audibly and pulled away. “Fuck, okay. Okay, we... How should we—Shit! Sherlock, please, wait, or I won’t—” You moaned and grabbed my wrists, pulling my hands away from where I had sneaked them between our bodies and grabbed our erections, and pinned them over my head. “Stay still!” you ordered with a chuckle and kissed my lips.

I obeyed.

You let your breathing slow down. “Lube, right.” You leaned forward on your hand—the one holding down my wrists—and stretched to open the side table’s drawer, from which you produced a bottle of slick lube. You held it with the hand you were keeping me captive and tilted it in order to squeeze some onto your fingers.

I watched your every move as you  rubbed of your thumb and fingers until every inch of your digits was slick. I watched as your hand disappeared between my legs, and suddenly—oh—and suddenly your hand was there, your fingertips pressing just against my entrance. One finger circled it, and I relaxed under your touch.

You kissed me as you slipped your finger inside of me upto the first phalange. Then slightly out, and then in, deeper, faster. My breathing hitched in my mouth while you devoured me, and then, oh, oh, another time, another phalange, and suddenly your finger was entirely inside of me, moving, pulling and pushing. I wanted to whimper when a second finger joined the first one; it took the best of me not to shout, to contain my noises. I felt my temperature spike and my head felt like it would explode as soon as you had three fingers inside of me, moving, scissoring, preparing me for what was to come.

Only for a moment did I let myself panic. With your three digits inside of me, as your mouth pulled away from mine, I had a moment of doubt. I barely knew you, didn’t I? No, that was not true. I knew you. I just could not remember you.

Your eyes met mine, and you smiled. Maybe this was for the best, John. Maybe it was better for me not to remember you but to need you, just like I used to need you. Maybe like this, I could know you all over again, discover your likes and dislikes, while having that sort of underlying feeling of what you are, of who you are. I trusted you, and I had found you extremely attractive to my need for discovery. I found you intriguing, and every day that went by I knew you a bit more. But you were full of surprises, John, and I couldn’t get tired of figuring you out. I smiled back at you, and you kissed me again. This time, your lips were sweet and soft against mine; they were a reminder of something bigger.

You pecked my lips and moved again inside of me, but this time to pull out. You reached back up and slicked your fingers again, only to rub your erection with them, and placed it against my entrance. I practically whimpered with need. You pushed inside of me with so much care, John, when all I wanted was for you to thrust inside of me, to take me all at once.

Finally, with grunts coming from both of us, you slipped fully inside of me.

You panted, completely still. You reached up and cupped my cheek, guiding my lips to yours once again. “Alright?”

I nodded and swallowed. “Please,” I begged with a harsh voice, and you looked into my eyes. “Please, John. More.” I thrusted my hips down as if making a point, and you let out a broken sigh.

“God, Sherlock.”

Your hands flew to my thighs. I spread my legs wider, feeling your fingers and nails bury in my flesh, and oh! When you moved, John. God, when you moved, I felt like you were tearing me apart, and filling me, and oh, John, oh! You thrust in me and I positively moaned. I wanted you, I needed you, and there you were, in me, filling me, loving me. Your movements, the noises made by the slapping of flesh against flesh, your nails digging in me, your—oh!—your cock filling me, your growls, I—oh!—I couldn’t take it.

Your hand found its way to my prick, and you pumped—oh—you pumped it, and stroked me, and your expert thumb touched my head in a way that had me biting my lip to prevent me from screaming.

Oh!

Oh, John! You... Oh! You felt fantastic; you were brilliant.

You intertwined your fingers with mine and captured my lips in another desperate kiss, letting out a harsh breath through your nose, and when our mouths were apart I made a noise, and it made you thrust faster, stronger, harder, and whisper words my brain could not make sense of. But oh, the ghosting of your breath on my skin, so drenched in sweat, and your lips inches away from me, making the dragging force that pulled us together in the beginning, the original impulse that started all of this, grow, and then your mouth was on mine and away again, but always there, always there, and oh! Oh, John! Oh! Oh!

One more thrust, combined with the twist of your hand on me, and I was spreading my seed all over our stomachs, and oh, oh, the orgasm took over my brain, my sensations, my nerves, my heart, and I exploded, I exploded for you, and I succumbed to you, to the sensation, to the pleasure, with a final gasp.

I distantly felt you moving in me as you joined me in the blissful sensation. You let out a groan and filled me, and oh. Oh, John.

I came back to reality, slowly, when I felt your hand squeezing mine. I opened my eyes and saw you hovering above me. You were smiling, shining for me, because of me. You let go of my hand and slid it down my arm and up to my cheek, on which you let your thumb dance.

“Alright?” you asked me, and I smiled back. Your lips stretched further and you leaned down for another kiss. Your mouth on mine put me back together from where I had fallen apart.

Your hands embraced me as you lowered your head to nuzzle my neck. I hummed in approval, and you placed a single kiss on my sensitive skin before pulling away only a little to slip out of me (I gasped) and then back to my neck to kiss it again.

If sex with you was going to be always like this, John, if you would fill me, tear me apart, and then piece me together again like a puzzle, if everything would be so intense, if I could have this with you every time, then oh, John, I wanted this more than anything. I wanted you with me, in me, above me, connected with me, our skin touching, our mouths kissing. I wanted you forever.

You lay yourself on the bed next to me, and I turned so that we were facing each other. There were wrinkles on either side of your face from smiling. You moved closer and kissed me, sweet, soft kisses once again, as your hand traveled down my arm and your fingers entwined with mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn it would be a long one! I still believe it was worth it, don't you think? Heehee!


	6. Epilogue - New Beginnings.

Six months went by in a rush. Looking back at them, I can remember the thousand colours the sun would reflect on your hair, but none of the cases. I remember your fingers intertwined with mine in the cab, the kisses against the wall of the hall to 221B, the loving looks you granted me, your moans, your sighs, your frustrated grunts when I crossed some sort of line. The getting to know you for the first time all over again. The flutter in my chest as you did something particularly nice for me. The need to touch you. The way I could feel your absence as though it physically hurt me. The way the wrinkles appear in the edge of your eyes when you smile. The taste of the first tea you prepared for me. I can remember all of that, but none of the cases, the pieces of news, or anything else but you. And this time, it’s not the amnesia that prevents me from remembering those things, but how irrelevant those things are to me.

My doctors and you believe my memory will eventually come back. We’ve spent these last six months trying to get me to remember, but we failed. I’ve recalled bits from here and there, just like I had those first days, but that’s it.

You smile at me from the other side of the street. Your hands are in the pockets of your horrible green coat with the furry lining on the hood. I mutter ‘excuse me’ under my breath, and my eyes never leave yours as I cross the street with a few long strides, Lestrade’s complaints gone silent as he sees you. My body collides against yours and I press my lips to yours. You melt at my touch, humming and letting me take you in, letting me close the distance completely, even though it seems like it isn’t enough, even if I have the urge to crawl inside of you and live there, if only to be a single person.

We pull away and I can feel my cheeks burning, probably as red as yours.

“Got anything from the secretary?” I ask, the words coming accompanied by white puffs of air.

You shake your head and swallow. “No, nothing. Anything on the car?”

I smirk. “The tires are low.” Another puff of white air leaves my mouth as though I were a dragon.

You blink at me a few times and look at the vehicle. “And?”

I smile wider, letting air out through my nose in a small, silent laugh. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

You take the hand I’m offering in one of yours and we walk, together, into another mystery.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me quite a long time to write, all with hectic personal life and college and also love life... Phew! I'm so glad I've finished it at last!
> 
> A ton and a half of thanks to my three gorgeous betas: lovely [Inter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrosand/pseuds/Interrosand), my amazing girlfriend [Kate](http://kittykat-elyn.tumblr.com), and the always awesome [Honeybee221b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b/pseuds/honeybee221b), who assured me this wasn't crap as I thought, cheered for me to keep on writing, and found any and all awkward phrasings and mistakes I'd made. That said, any and all crapness is completely my fault.
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> **This is the end, peeps. Thanks for reading. Cheers!**


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